


Introspection

by Geruuchan



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Dad Spy, Other, They're in jail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geruuchan/pseuds/Geruuchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scout and Spy are in jail (it doesn't really correlate with the comic nor is it supposed to, this was completely out of the blue from a prompt given in a class) and scout is basically pondering on life (OOC I know)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introspection

**Author's Note:**

> The original is this chapter, its in European Portuguese, for the translated version go onto the second chapter, thank you!

O sol trespassa pelas pequenas brechas da janela, a janela da jaula em que vivo, fechado e na escuridão.  
Apenas tenho papéis e meios para escrever, è parte disso tenho lençóis numa cama desfeita, de colchão duro ao qual a diferença entre ele e o chão é apenas a calidez e o frio que emitem. Brinco com pedras e a imaginação que me resta, mas o tédio devora-me a alma. Penso no mundo lá fora e nos momentos em que em vez de pedras jogava beisebol, ouvia o vento e gritos de outras pessoas que bricavam em Boston, minha terra natal.  
O amor que tinha em correr para chegar primeiro, por entre ruas cheias, por entre árvores e terra, lama e ruas sem fim.  
Agora aqui me encontrava, numa jaula, numa prisão, com a pior pessoa ao meu lado.  
Existe uma pequena janela por entre as celas dos delitos menores, para que possam conversar os "pequenos" criminosos, mas nós não somos pequenos criminosos, e na cela ao meu lado estava possivelmente o maior criminoso da minha vida, o meu pai.  
Um espia profissional, tão bom, que desapareceu da minha vida quando era uma criança. Nunca tive memórias dele, nem julgava vir a ter.  
Quem diria que o meu "Pai" (ainda me recuso a aceitar) era assim, uma pessoa de sabores requintados, que amava vinho do melhor e que, mais que tudo, conseguia enganar quem tivesse de enganar.  
Mostra-lhe as costas e ele mostra-te outro mundo, um mundo escuro, um mundo onde não existes.  
Era assustador, especialmente a sua calma conforme jorrava sangue das suas vitimas.  
O seu sorriso, tal era o entretenimento, de ver o pânico nas caras das pessoas quando descubriam os seus erros, erros que não iriam cometer nunca mais.  
Demorei imenso tempo a perceber, e em parte, nunca quis perceber, nunca quis ver essa realidade de que esse era o meu pai.  
Alguém que por entre esse sadismo profissional, por entre as farças e as mentiras, era-me uma pessoa tão próxima.  
E às vezes eu tinha esperança, quando aquele sorriso sádico se tornava simpático e caloroso, como um completo contraste ao normal, como a a luz e a escuridão. E quando aquela face sempre coberta por uma máscara se desvendava, podia finalmente ver os seus cabelos grisalhos, alguns brancos, puxados para trás mas sempre bem mantidos. As mãos gastas de habilidades incriveís, que giravam canivetes como se nada fossem, nunca vi o dia em que tivessem ficado magoadas com tal perícia.  
Alguém que se resguardava em tão alta classe estava agora em roupas de prisão ao invés dos seus fatos e se sentava agora numa cama dura ao invés do seu Chaise-longue.  
Secalhar tinhamos parecenças de facto. Dois criminosos, pai e filho, na mesma arêa, no mesmo trabalho, mas com especialidades diferentes.  
E talvez, só talvez, se eu aceitasse a relação que temos e tentásse melhora-la, acreditando que ele quisesse o mesmo, talvez não nos sentariamos no silêncio das nossas celas, coladas uma à outra, com uma cómoda janela para discutirmos, conversarmos e muito provávelmente, sairmos daqui.  
Talvez apenas se aceitasse.


	2. Introspection (English)

The sun breaches through the small cracks of the windows, the windows from the cage I live in, enclosed and in the darkness.  
I have but papers and ways to write in them and asides from that, there's only the sheets resting in my undone bed, with a mattress so hard that it's only difference between the floor is merely the heat and cold they produce. I play with rocks on the floor and whatever is left of my imagination, but the boredom is gnawing at me.  
I think about the outside world and the moments in which instead of stones I played baseball, heard the wind and the screams from other children playing in Boston, my home land.  
The love I had when I ran miles and miles, through streets brimming with people, through trees and dirt, just to be the very first one to arrive at the fight scenes.  
And yet here I was, in a cage, a prison, with the worst possible person by my side.  
There's a small window between both our jail cells in this area of the minor crimes so that "minor" criminals can chat, however, we aren't minor criminals, and on the cell at my side was possibly the biggest criminal of my life, my dad.  
A professional spy, so good in fact, that he vanished from my life when I was still just a child. I never really had any memories of him neither did I think I would ever have.  
Who would've known that my "Dad" (I still refuse to accept this.) was like this, someone with refined tastes, lover of the bestest wine and, above all else, a master at tricking whoever he needed to trick.  
Show him your back and he'll show you another world, a world enveloped in darkness, a world where you no longer live.  
It was absolutely scary, especially his calmness as his targets bled out right in front of him.  
His smile, such was his amusement, as people panicked upon realizing their mistakes, mistakes that they would never do again.  
It took me so much time to understand, and in part, i never wanted to in the first place. I was reluctant to think of a reality in which he was my father.  
How could someone with such professional sadism, between tricks and lies, possibly be someone so close to me.  
Yet sometimes i still had hope, when that grin would fade into a soft heartwarming smile, a complete opposite of the usual, like darkness is to light. And when that face always covered by a mask was taken off, I could finally see it, his grey hair with tufts of white, slicked back and yet so well maintained. His worn hands with amazing abilities, spinning butterfly knives day in and day out, and yet there had never been the day in which I had seen them hurt themselves in such tricks.  
Someone that kept themselves in such high maintenance with such class was now wearing jail clothes instead of their cleansed suits and sitting on a stone hard bed instead of their chaise-longue.  
Maybe we did have some things in common. Two criminals, Father and Son, in the same area, same work but different specialties.  
And maybe, just maybe, if I were to accept our relationship and tried to strengthen it, believing he'd want to do the same, maybe, instead of sitting in silence on our cells, we'd be using the small window to speak, argue and more than likely, think of a way out of here.  
Maybe if I were to accept.


End file.
